


the battler

by rosielibrary



Category: Gravity Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 21:24:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16840687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosielibrary/pseuds/rosielibrary
Summary: request for hot boxer stan n reader fun times(word of warning: this fic is from 2015 and unedited!)





	the battler

It’s pitch black outside, but within the walls of the club, it’s blinding. The lights flick on and off to the beat of the bass pounding in your chest and you weave between people to the bar, where you find the back of the head of a man you know all too well.

“How much did we make off the men in creepy fur coats?”

Your question, whispered into his ear, makes him stand to attention, turning around to look you up and down. Like him, you’re dressed in formal wear, and you fix his lopsided bow tie when he wraps his arms around your waist. You try to ignore how your pulse quickens at his touch— you’re both playing the parts of poker master and his loving partner, but you couldn’t help that you’d gotten a little too into the role and you’d kissed his cheek when he pulled a full house, laughing at how he blushed scarlet. It was nothing, of course. You’re a good actor.

“At least six thousand,” he replies with that cheeky grin you love. “All thanks to you. And my loaded dice, but they don’t haveta know that.”

“You’re an ally to die for, “Steve”,” you laugh, and you don’t see how his smile falls for a second.

“That’s us, the best in the business. Allies.” He swallows and looks to you. “Any signs?”

“Not so far,” you say, giving the club a quick scan. “The people we did in left already, I saw the man’s leopard coat go out the door.“

You sit at his side, buying a drink– he’s driving, after all– and glancing to the money in Steve’s lap. It’s certainly impressive, as is your elaborate cocktail when it’s placed in front of you. Steve slides a hundred dollar bill across and tells the barkeep to forget about the change. The young woman nods so hard her bright pink wig almost falls off, and she scurries away to another customer.

“So benevolent,” you laugh, playing with the straw of your drink.

“What can I say? I’m a real giver,” Stan says, addressing you by your pseudonym for the night. You’re both under fake ID’s, just to be safe. But hey, you and “Steve Pinington” were home free now, right?

Don’t count your chickens.

A door is kicked in and the music skids to a halt, everyone in the near vicinity turning around to see the culprit. Six policemen stand at the door and yell about how they were looking for two people by the names of– Shit, that’s you and Stan. Leopard coat called you out, the bastard.

“Time to bounce,” you say quietly, and you see a glint of something shiny– Stan’s brass knuckles are slid onto his hands already, the roll of cash dropped into his pocket. You swallow, but your face is the perfect calm, matching Stan’s. A policeman sees the two of you stand up and head toward the door and blocks your way, but you smile innocently, catching his attention before Stan socks him in the jaw, knocking him to the ground.

All hell breaks loose then, of course. The five other policemen dash over and Stan takes two of them, while three others go for you, judging the one without brass knuckles to be the easier feat. You dodge one’s first blow, ducking down and kicking his shin, and when he bends forward in recoil you swipe your knee upward and to his nose. The next grabs your arms from behind; you headbutt him and jab your elbow into his stomach, pushing him against the wall with your back as you kick the remaining cop between the legs and push him into a table with your foot. Stan’s fist collides with the last cop and he nods to the door, ducking past an upended chair to open it. You beeline towards it too, then retrace your steps and grab your drink, leaping over the chair and running past Stan to his car.

By the time any of the cops had gotten up, you were flying down the highway with your cocktail glass in hand.

“Close call,” Stan says, turning down the radio. “You alright?”

“Not a scratch,” you grin, downing your drink and wiping your mouth with one hand. “You did a number on your two, y’know.”

“Pfft, me? You were somethin’ crazy out there,” Stan laughs, shaking his head. “The way you pushed that one cop against the wall and kicked the next one over? That was fuckin’ hot.”

You laugh, hiding your red face by turning to watch the city disappear behind you in the rearview mirror. Stan floors the gas pedal and you roll down your window, letting the wind whip against your fingers. The two of you drive through the night, and the sun is climbing over the horizon when you check into a motel in the next state over, ignoring the guy’s look of surprise when the two of you ask for a room while both in formal clothes with disheveled hair, handing him two hundred dollar bills.

The door is unlocked and you both collapse onto the bed, asleep within minutes. When you wake up, Stan’s arm is wrapped around your middle and he pulls you close against his chest, the faint smell of his cologne enveloping the room. You stay there until he wakes up; you feel him freeze in shock and look down at you when he does, and you pretend to be asleep, deepening your breathing.

Stan relaxes, and you hear him sigh in content. He brushes a stray hair from your face, his hand resting on your cheek for a moment, before he pulls away and stands up, going towards the phone on the table under the window. You sit up when his back is turned, stretching your arms above your head, and you see Stan fish a business card from his wallet, punching the numbers into the phone and waiting for a minute.

“You got a spot?” He pauses, nodding to himself. “I’ll be there. Eight? Alright.”

Stan puts the phone down and sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“What’s up?”

“I got a fight.”

— — —

The next stop on your adventure is an underground club, but it’s not music that makes your heart race. The chants beyond the wall grow louder, the rowdy crowd impatient for their show as the two stars sit behind the scenes. Stan’s trying to lace his gloves with his teeth, so you stand and assist him, despite how your hands shake.

“I’m not gonna die, y’know,” he says under his breath, and you meet his eye, both of you going as red as his gloves. “I’ll be fine.”

“You better be,” you threaten, but he knows better than to take you seriously. You exchange a grin and he slips the mouthguard in, following the other fighter towards the ring. You go to your spot at the edge of his corner, blending into the crowd’s bellows, your lips pressed together anxiously.

The announcer goes through names and you study the opponent. He’s tall, significantly wider than Stan, but it looks more like fat than muscle. The bell dings and your stomach flips; the fight begins.

It goes by in a whirlwind. Stan ducks, swerves, throws a punch, takes one in return, and you wince with him. He seems to glide across the ring, dodging more than hitting, but he tilts in the wrong direction and gets a fist in the face, another to the stomach, and you gasp, catching the attention of the woman next to you with her husband.

“He your special’un, sweetie?” she asks, and you falter for a minute, unsure of how to answer.

“Yes.“ He is, now that you thought about it.

You flinch when the whistle blows, the foul called for Stan’s opponent. They retreat to their corners and you sneak past the guard to stand on the edge, leaning on the ropes and handing Stan a bottle of water, which he pours over his head, shaking the sweat from his hair. His eye’s bruised shut, he’s breathing heavy, but he spits his mouthguard out and turns to you, who’s now dabbing at his forehead with a towel.

“Told ‘ya I’d be alright.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. The front of his vest is grabbed and you pull him towards you, kissing him hard, smiling at his muffled “wha” of surprise and the roars of the crowd behind you. Right in the kisser.

“Survive a little longer and there’ll be more where that came from.” It’s said into his ear when you pull away, and you stifle your giggles upon seeing his dumbstruck expression. He blinks, his dark eyes alight, and he stuffs the mouthguard back in, winking at you as you duck under the ropes, going back to your spot next to the woman who’s staring at you proudly.

“My man used to fight too,” she smiles, nudging her husband’s arm. “Did that to him once and he beat the other guy in record time. It’s a wonder what ya can do with a kiss, huh?”

You nod, laughing, hearing the bell go off and turning back towards the ring. Stan’s back on his feet and the fight continues, his ducks and dives met with the other guy’s steadying exhaustion. He knows what he’s doing— he’s tiring him out until he can put the winning blow— which he does, and the opponent collapses, the Goliath to Stan’s David hitting the ground with a thud.

He doesn’t get back up.

— — —

You unlock the door to the motel room and Stan sits on the edge of the bed with a sigh. The wad of cash is stuffed in his fist but he doesn’t go to count it, watching you go to the fridge and get one of the cold packs the room came equipped with instead, wrapping a hand towel around it and holding it to his bruised eye. You’re babbling about keeping it pressed there for a while so the swelling can at least go down, and Stan chuckles, his hand wrapping around your other wrist, stopping you mid-word.

“You’re flustered.”

“Am not.” You are so. You’re so busy trying to forget your spur-of-the-moment kiss that even looking at him makes you flush pink.

“Are too.” Stan pulls you down until your hand hits the bed at his side and your faces are level, his shit-eating grin inches from you. “Don’t play dumb with me now. I know when someone’s fakin’ being asleep.”

You freeze, eyes wide upon the memory of falling asleep with him earlier.

"Do you?”

“Do I what?” You whisper it, swallowing thickly. Stan lets go of your wrist, his hand landing on your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

“I’m not the type to go gushin’ about feelings and shit, but, uh…” He glances away for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “I… I like workin’ with you, y’know? And hanging out with you. And punching people with you, heh. But, um. I don’t— I don’t just wanna be allies anymore. I…”

“Mhmm?” Your hand holding the ice pack is frozen cold but you can’t move.

“Ah, fuck it—“ Stan pulls you close and kisses you, that same fire from the fight catching in you, and you drop the ice pack to his side, your cold hand placed on the back of his head, tangling into his hair, making him shudder. A few minutes pass and you pop apart, staring at each other, startled.

“At least now we won’t have to fake the whole couple business, right?”

Both of you burst out laughing and Stan grabs you around the waist, dragging you onto the bed with him and hugging you into his chest. You lie there for hours, talking and kissing until you head out into the night, looking for your next con with money in your pockets and Stan’s fingers threaded through yours.


End file.
